Lost
by brookyss36
Summary: Influenced by the TV series Lost. Moriarty crashes the plane that he, Sherlock, John, and Greg are on, sending them to a deserted island. They quickly discover that the island isn't quite what it seems and surviving on the island is being made extremely difficult by Moriarty who pushes them to their breaking points. Survival's the name of the game. So, let the games begin.
1. Crash

Update: I noticed a few inconsistencies in my story so I made a few slight changes.

* * *

"Why are plane rides so…boring?" Sherlock lazily looked out the plane window next to him, watching the clouds dully drift beneath them. His mind was constantly racing and the plane ride home wasn't giving him much to think about.

Both John and Greg looked at each other and grinned.

A new lead on the Moriarty case had sent the three of them to the United States for a couple days to do some investigating. Several eyewitnesses had placed Moriarty in Las Vegas but, as much as the trio tried, they couldn't find him anywhere. Sherlock deduced that he had already moved on to a new location and, more probable, had returned to England.

"Why didn't you bring a book or something?" John looked up at Sherlock from the book he was reading.

Sherlock responded by abruptly pulling down the window shade. He sat with his arms crossed staring blankly at the seat in front of him before he stood up and made his way toward the aisle.

"Where are you going?" Greg looked up at Sherlock from his bloody mary.

"I need to stretch my legs. Who knows, maybe I'll find some new clients."

"Yeah, well, have fun with that." Greg said with a chuckle as he tilted his head to finish his drink.

Sherlock walked out of first class and towards the back of the plane, eyes scanning every person he passed by. John just smiled and returned to his book.

"I wonder what it's like being Sherlock Holmes." Greg mused.

"I don't even think he knows the answer to that question."

They both laughed.

A voice from the aisle cut through their laughter and made John's hair raise on the back of his neck. "Excuse me. Do you gentlemen want a drink?"

He knew that voice. But it couldn't be, could it?

He slowly forced himself to look up to the source of the voice and stood up abruptly to face the man. A sense of shock overtook him and he struggled to find his voice as it now felt like there was something blocking his throat.

A dark haired man dressed in a pilot's uniform stood in front of them with a manic smile. He had a remote with a red button in his hand.

Greg followed John's lead and looked up; he felt his blood run cold.

"Moriarty…" was all John managed to choke out before about seven men, all wearing normal clothes, stood up, pulled out their bags from beneath their seats, and put what looked like parachutes on their backs.

"I'm sorry to have to cut our little reunion so short, but there's something that I have to do." Moriarty said with insincere sadness.

Before John or Greg could do anything, Moriarty pushed the red button in his hand and two loud explosions occurred.

John looked out the window to his left and saw, with horror, that the wing of the plane was no longer there. He and Greg scrambled back into their seats as the plane was thrown into a steep descent. All they could do was put on their seat belts and the oxygen masks that had fallen in front of them.

Another explosion. John wrenched his head to look behind him and saw that the back half of the plane had been blown off. People that didn't have time to get their seatbelts on were being sucked out of the plane and the people in the back half flew into the air with it.

"Sherlock!" John screamed instinctively into his oxygen mask. Why did Sherlock have to go into the back of the plane? He hoped and prayed that Sherlock had made it to a seat in time. He then noticed Moriarty and his men jump out of the plane through the emergency door with their parachute packs on.

John looked back ahead and then looked at Greg, fear was the main emotion on his face and John was sure that he looked the same. He looked back out of the window and felt a calm settle over him. _So this is how I'm going to die..._and the last thing he remembered seeing was ground rushing to meet them.

* * *

Greg opened his eyes and all he could see was white. He blinked them rapidly a few times until his vision came into focus. The first thing that he became aware of was pain. His eyes flew wide open and panic struck him and the memories of what had just happened came flooding back to him. He sat upright and let out an uncontrollable groan as he felt a sheering pain on his stomach. He looked down at his stomach; his shirt was soaked in blood and he lifted it up to inspect the damage. He sucked in a deep breath as he saw a deep, jagged gash running all the way across his abdomen. He rolled over and sat on his knees with a grunt of pain. He noticed startlingly a lot of various cuts and bruises on the rest of his body. Looking around he noticed that all he could see ahead of him was sand and the endless blue ocean. Panic rose inside of him again as he realized the magnitude of the situation that he was in. Stranded, who knows where, with a madman, Moriarty, presumably lurking around somewhere. The sound of rustling trees pulled him away from his thoughts as he looked behind him and saw an endless amount of trees. He struggled to get to his feet and held his stomach as he shuffled his way towards the sound.

"Hello?" He called out weakly.

He stopped at the edge of the trees and waited for a reply.

"Is anybody out there?" His voice was a little stronger.

"Greg, is that you?" A faint voice called out.

"John?" Greg held his stomach again and struggled through the forest towards John's voice.

Greg made it to a clearing in the forest and saw John emerge from the other side.

"Greg! John!" They both said at the same time with relief in their voices.

Greg took a couple of steps towards John before he collapsed on his knees with groan of pain, clutching his stomach.

John rushed towards Greg, kneeled next to him, and grabbed onto his shoulders.

"Oh, God." He looked down and noticed the red stain growing on Greg's shirt.

"Hang on, Greg, I'll be right back."

John rushed into the trees and shortly returned with a bag in his hand.

"I woke up near the plane when we crashed, I was able to find a first aid kit. Thought it might come in handy." He looked at Greg with a small smile.

Greg tried to reciprocate the smile but could only manage a grimace.

"How in the world did you get thrown so far from the plane? It's a long ways away from here."John muttered to himself as he knelt next to Greg and searched through the first aid kit.

Greg squeezed his eyes closed in pain. Truth was, he had no idea what happened after the crash. He blacked out before the plane hit the ground so it was a mystery to him.

"Greg, you're going to have to lie on your back."

Greg nodded and John helped him lay on his back. John slowly pulled Greg's shirt up over his wound. John let a gasp escape from his lips as he saw the damage done to Greg's stomach. The cut ran straight across his stomach and was about seven inches long. The blood escaping from it was alarming.

"I need to stitch it." John said, his face apologetic.

"Wha-What?" Greg felt panicked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." John held his breath as he looked into Greg's panicked eyes.

Greg hesitated then quickly nodded his head in reply. "Just...get it over with."

John looked through the kit until he found what he was looking for: a needle and string.

He tied the end of the string and paused as he looked sadly into his friend's eyes.

Greg reached up, gripped John's arm, and gave him a comforting smile.

John took a deep breath before he began. "Here we go."


	2. Adaptation

Greg's hand gripped a tree nearby and he felt his fingernails digging into the bark, he let another pathetic whimper escape his lips. He had been trying to hold them back but had been unsuccessful so far. Every stitch John made had ended with a whimper from Greg and a flurry of murmured apologies from John. John knew he was helping, but he could help feeling like he was hurting Greg.

With an audible breath of relief, John finished the last stitch and tied it off.

"I think I've got it." John was glad that he was finished and was pleased to see that the bleeding was minimal. He just hoped that Greg hadn't lost too much blood.

"I'm going to have to disinfect it though. And it's going to hurt. A lot."

Greg nodded. "Just do it."

John rummaged through the first aid kit again until he found the rubbing alcohol. He unscrewed the cap and held it over Greg's wound.

"I'm sorry, Greg."

Greg nodded and John quickly poured the contents over the entire wound.

John had never heard a man scream like that before. It seemed to bounce off of every tree towards their direction and was never ending. A stream of agony of the kind John had never heard and Greg had never experienced.

Greg screwed his eyes shut and gripped the tree next to him with as much strength as he had. He tried not to move and break the stitches, but he was finding that extremely difficult. He started convulsing uncontrollably; it felt like every nerve in his body was exposed.

John held onto Greg's shoulders and tried his best to hold him to the ground as the pain slowly ebbed to a manageable state.

Greg's screams turned into ragged breaths as John sat back and looked at Greg's stitches; they were all fine.

Greg felt tears leak from his eyes as he slowly opened them. John found the antibacterial ointment and bandages and quickly put them on Greg.

John gave Greg a few minutes to recover before he helped him sit up and lean against a tree and he wrapped the final bandage around him.

As John was adding the finishing touches, Greg noticed for the first time just how bad John looked. Cuts and bruises seemed to be covering most him and he noticed a quite a lot of blood all over him.

"That can't all be mine, can it?" Greg murmured as he pointed to John's shirt.

John was confused until he finally realized what Greg was asking. "No, not quite all of it." John noticed the concerned look in his friend's eyes. "It's nothing serious. I'll be fine."

John pulled Greg's shirt back down and grinned at him. "Good as new."

Despite the pain, Greg grinned. "I feel like it too."

"I say we make camp here for the night." John stood up and looked around the clearing. "I grabbed enough food from the plane to get us through a couple of days and I think there's a fresh water stream nearby."

Greg nodded. "Were there any other survivors on the plane that you could see?

John shook his head. "Most everyone died, but there were a few seats unaccounted for which means some people survived and either fled the wreckage or were thrown from it like we were."

They both grew silent and Greg knew that John, like him, was thinking about Sherlock.

John cleared his throat and looked around at the clearing they were in. "I'm going to go look around and find some stuff to build a shelter and a fire. You just sit tight and try not to move."

"Shouldn't be a problem." Greg laughed then grimaced from the pain.

John smiled. "Be right back."

John walked to the edge of the clearing and quickly disappeared behind the thicket of trees. He hoped that Greg didn't notice that he had grabbed the first aid kit. Once he was sure he was out of Greg's sight, he leaned up against a tree and sucked in a deep breath. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked at the wound in his right shoulder. When he woke up from the crash, he found that a rather large piece of metal had been lodged in his shoulder. He had just removed it when Greg had found him. His shoulder hurt but he was sure it didn't hurt as bad as Greg's stomach. He was sure it needed stitches but he didn't have time to do it and he wasn't even sure that he could reach it properly since he would need two hands. He knew he couldn't ask Greg to do it in the state he was currently in, so hee quickly cleaned and bandaged his shoulder before he started looking for materials for a shelter. He collected several giant leaves that were the size of half his body. He dragged them into the clearing and before too long he had almost set up a tent like structure with room enough for he and Greg to stand and sleep in. He attached the leaves together using vine in the shape of a large tarp, then tied them to trees on one end and used sticks to hold up the other end. John built the whole thing over where Greg was sitting so he didn't have to move.

"Feels just like home!" Greg yelled to John as he almost finished his makeshift shelter.

John grinned at Greg. "Well, that's what I had in mind."

"I wonder where everyone else is." Greg's tone had turned serious. John knew that he was really talking about Sherlock and Moriarty.

John shook his head. "I don't know. Sherlock was in the tail end of the plane...and Moriarty has to be somewhere. As for everyone else, I can't imagine too many people survived. I imagine we were probably lucky to survive."

Greg only nodded his head and they were quiet for several minutes as John continued to work on the shelter. They both thought back to the moments before the crash. About Moriarty and Sherlock and the weight of their situation was overwhelming.

John finished up their tent and made some makeshift mattresses out of leaves. He and Greg laid down and stared at the ceiling of leaves above them.

"We're going to have to find him." Greg said with confidence, then faltered. "If he's out there."

John nodded his head. "He's out there. We just have to get to him before Moriarty does."

And with that they both slowly fell asleep as the darkness fell around them.

* * *

**Thanks for the review and all of the follows/favorites! You guys are the best!**


	3. Out of the Frying Pan

**First off, I'm so sorry for how long it has taken me to update! Unfortunately, I expect it to be like that for a while; I have been crazy busy! But I promise to try my best. Anyways, I appreciate the reviews, favorites, and follows. You all are wonderful! :)**

* * *

_Crunch Crunch Crunch. _

John slowly squinted as he tried to opened his eyes. His subconscious was threatening to take him back into sleep.

_Crunch Crunch Crunch. _It was louder this time.

His eyes flew open as a dump of adrenaline flowed through him. He quickly sat up and looked wildly around, trying to see through the trees around them; he couldn't see anything. All there were were trees and more trees.

_Crunch Crunch Crunch. _Even louder this time.

Panic started threatening to overtake him and he looked over to his left at Greg who was still fast asleep.

John started shaking Greg's shoulders. "Greg, wake up, shit..." He frantically looked around as the crunching noise got louder and more frequent.

"Wha'...blimey, what is it, John?" Greg opened his eyes and, with John's help, sat up.

"There's...noises, crunching, coming near us. It sounds like footsteps and more than one person..." John could hear the panic rising in his voice and knew that he needed to calm down. This was like war, he had to keep his head.

He quietly stood up and listened intensely for more sounds. No sounds came and John felt his heart rate lessen slightly.

_Maybe it was just an animal. Yeah, that was probably it. Probably not Moriarty's dangerous goons, just some blood thirsty animals wanting to eat us. I feel much better now._

John would have laughed to himself if the situation wasn't so serious.

Suddenly, it was like a slow ambush, men dressed in black emerged from the trees into the clearing across from where John and Greg were at. One particularly large man was in the front. They were slowly and intently moving toward John and Greg, like they were prey that they knew couldn't get away. John didn't see any weapons in their hands, but, by the size of most of them he doubted they needed any.

John snapped into action as he scrambled to help Greg get to his feet.

"Come on, come on!" John frantically grabbed Greg's arm and pulled him in the direction away from the men.

The two of them set off in a run, as fast as they could go, into the forest. John stumbled over branches and roots and tried to help Greg keep up, he knew that they could only make it so far with Greg's stomach. His breath was coming in hitches, and it wasn't long before he obtained a painful stitch in his side. His heart was pounding as they ran for their lives. Before John knew it, he had lost Greg. He looked back and saw Greg leaning against a tree, one hand clutching his stomach.

"Go, just go!" Greg yelled at John.

John shook his head and made to move toward Greg, he could hear the men growing nearer; he couldn't leave Greg behind.

"No, go John! It's better if they only get one of use instead of both of us!" Greg frantically tried to wave John away.

But it was too late, John had already reached Greg and had put his arm around him and started moving them away from the men coming for them.

"You bloody idiot, why didn't you just leave me? We're never going to make it."

But they kept moving as fast as they could even though John knew that Greg was right. He could hear them growing closer.

_It's useless, _John thought, _we're never going to make it._

Just as that thought entered into John's mind, he felt something hard knock him into the ground on his back and he felt a searing pain above his right eye. He tried to look over and find where Greg was, but blood kept getting in his eyes and obscuring his vision. He heard a cry of pain and reached out next to him trying to get to Greg but rough hands were suddenly holding his arms to the ground. A menacing, angry face filled his line of sight. John immediately felt fear when he saw the man. He wasn't Moriarty, but he was definitely cut from the same cloth.

The man took his grip off of John's arms and grabbed his shirt collar, lifting his head off the ground slightly and shook.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" The man was yelling.

John's vision was fading and the man's voice was muffled.

He felt a fist connect with the side of his face and his head lolled to the side. The man continued to shake him.

"Where is he!" The man yelled even louder.

But John was in no condition to reply, his vision was fading to black and practically no sound was coming in. He faintly heard a scream of pain before he felt another fist connect to his face and he passed out.


	4. Lost, Found, and Left for Dead

**Hello everyone! I'm pleasantly surprised how quickly I got this update finished. First off, thanks to everyone who reviewed; I love you all! I'm still kind of writing blindly with this story, but I'm having fun figuring it out as I go. Anyways, enough rambling, enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

He immediately became aware of how quiet it was around him. He couldn't hear anything; it was total silence.

He was lying flat on his back and noticed he was lying on a pile of clothes; luggage and bags were strewn around him. As if he had just had freezing water thrown on him, he jumped to his feet and his heartbeat rapidly increased. Sherlock hardly ever felt panicked but this situation was definitely an exception.

He quickly realized that he was in the cargo hold and the memories of what had happened prior to the crash came flooding back to him. After he left John and Greg, he had walked to the back of the plane and quickly came to the conclusion that there weren't any people interesting enough for his time. Disappointed, he had started walking back towards his seat when two security guards had grabbed him and taken him to the back of the plane. He remembered trying to put up a fight but they had covered his nose and mouth with a rag soaked in chloroform. Consciousness escaped him and that's the last thing he remembered.

He pulled himself out of his memories and looked out of the opening of the plane where the plane had broken in half. The water on the beach moved back and forth peacefully, as if everything was as it should be. His mind snapped back into survival mode, survival had to be his main objective. He began to search the bags that were surrounding him for anything useful. He grabbed a large suitcase and dumped the contents out; that's what he would use to put everything in. He found a few lighters, some books, a couple shirts his size, some sweatshirts, a blanket, a few first aid kits, and a knife.

He packed all of his treasures in his suitcase and walked out of the cargo hold onto the soft sand. The heat hit Sherlock suddenly as the sun poured on him. He pulled of his overcoat and stuffed it into his bag, it was too warm to wear it, but it might come in handy at night when it got cold. He untucked his button-up purple shirt from his pants and rolled up his pants so that they went to his knees. He turned back to look at the plane and his eyes drifted toward the upper level of the plane, where the passengers were. He felt of pang of conviction; there could still be people alive in there. With his face set in grim determination he started climbing up to the main level of the plane. The plane had crashed tail end first so it was downward sloping, making Sherlock stumble as he stepped onto the surface.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the lack of movement in the plane. There were lots of bodies though. Slowly, he made his way through the plane, stopping at each person and checking their pulse, just in case. Finally, he had made it to the last person. No one had survived; except for him. There was only one explanation for everything: Moriarty. Momentarily, Sherlock felt confused. If Moriarty wanted to kill him, why try to ensure that he survive the crash? It took only seconds for him to realize why. It was all a game. A sick, twisted game of survival. Who could last longer before the other died. Anger burst through Sherlock as he looked at the lifeless bodies around him and as he realized the cause of their deaths. It was all so pointless, so stupid. That thought turned his thoughts to John and Greg. His stomach dropped as he wondered if they had survived or had ended up like the rest of the people on the plane. _No, _he said to himself,_ if Moriarty ensured that I would survive the crash, surely he'd do the same for John and Greg. _But uncertainty crept into his mind. He shook his head and decided the only way to find out for sure would be to find John and Greg, dead or alive.

There was only one last bit of the plane to check. He walked through curtains that revealed the area where the bathroom was located and he was pleased to find the food cart lying on its side with food scattered around it. He was slightly disappointed to find that there were only small bags of peanuts and cookies for food, but there were cans of soda and, more importantly, bottles of water. He rushed back into the main area and looked around until he found a small bag and emptied it's contents. He ran back to the food cart and stuffed everything into the bag. Pleased with his find, he climbed back down out of the plane onto solid ground.

Sherlock was finally starting to feel hopeful. He was going to find John and Greg, they would be alive, and then they would finally kill Moriarty. A smile crept at the edge of his lips as he grabbed his luggage and set off on his new mission with a new found determination.

* * *

John didn't want to open his eyes. The sleep that he had been forced into had been so peaceful, so calming. He had dreamt that he was drinking champagne with Sherlock, Greg, Mary, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson at 221b Baker Street and he and Sherlock had just solved a case. It was one of those dreams that you never want to wake up from. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to maintain a firm grasp on sleep and he was slowly waking up. As his eyes opened, he immediately felt immense pain from the wound on his damaged shoulder, which was now bleeding, and where the cut above his eye was located. The second thing he felt was immense confusion; he was standing upright and his back was against something very hard. He tried to move his arms but he couldn't move them an inch. In fact, the only thing he could move was his head. His arms were tied around a rather large tree and ropes held the rest of his body secure against the tree as well. He looked up and saw that a still unconscious Lestrade was in the same situation across from John, about 20 feet away. John was startled to see that fresh blood looked like it was soaking through Lestrade's shirt.

A loud voice broke John's concerned attention from Greg. "Finally, you're awake!"

The large man who had knocked John out came lumbering toward him and he seemed even more menacing than before.

Stupidly, John struggled against his restraints again. The man just laughed.

"We're in a bit of a predicament here," The man said with a sigh.

John lifted his chin and looked the man in the eyes. "And what would that be?" He was trying to sound braver than he felt.

The man returned John's gaze. "Well, boss says we're only allowed to take one of you to him, but we can't decide which one to take and which one to leave tied to a tree."

John's breathing hitched and his eyes widened as he looked back over at Greg and saw that he was now awake, listening intently but still clearly in pain.

Obviously Sherlock was still out there, or else Moriarty's men wouldn't be looking for him, but was he even alive? If John went with Moriarty's men and left Greg, would Sherlock find Greg or would he die from blood loss? If he let them take Greg, he would probably receive some medical attention and John would probably have a better chance of getting himself free from the tree if Sherlock didn't find him and he could try to rescue Greg.

"Well?" The man barked at John.

"Well what?" John said with the least amount of fear possible.

"Which one of you stays and which one goes?"

John quickly thought it over one more time and glanced at Greg. Greg looked back at John, as if he already knew what John was going to decide.

"I'll stay," John said sternly, still looking at Greg.

The man laughed harshly. "Thought you'd say that."

Two men with knives cut John free of the ropes that bound him to the tree and re-tied his hands in front of him.

It took a moment for John to register what was happening.

"No, no, I told you, take Greg, leave me here!" The volume of his voice was rising.

John started pushing against the two men, who were know holding his arms.

The large man didn't say anything in reply. He walked up to John and tied a bit of rope to the rope tied around John's hands and started walking away, pulling John with him.

The two men let go of John and he violently pulled against his restraints as the large man kept walking, pulling John away from Greg.

John wrenched his head around to try to look at Greg, who was watching the scene with a mix of alarm and pain.

"Greg," John hoarsely yelled and his voice faltered, "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry,"

Greg tried to look as consolidating as he could at his friend, but it was only mere seconds before John was dragged away from view. Greg felt numb with shock as he looked down at his blood stained clothes. He knew some of his stitches had ripped and he was bleeding again. He prayed that John would be okay, but the realistic side of him knew that neither of them were going to be okay if they made it out of this alive. And, at the moment, Greg was highly doubtful that he would be alive too much longer. He realized that his last hope for survival was Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Moriarty's Army

**Well, I must say, I'm quite proud of myself! Two updates in two days! I've had quite a bit of free time this weekend, so I've been using it to write. Thanks again for the reviews; they are what keeps me writing this story! :)**

* * *

Darkness filled Greg's vision as he sagged helplessly against the ropes holding him tight to the tree. He wasn't sure if the cause of the darkness was because it was night time or if it was because he was dying. It was hard to differentiate between the two at the moment.

As soon as he saw Moriarty's men dragging John away, he knew that he was going to die. Unless, by some miracle, Sherlock came to his rescue. He was trying to maintain a positive outlook, but, as he stood dying, tied to a tree, it was difficult to do. Even if Sherlock had survived the crash, the odds of him stumbling across Greg in the middle of the jungle was near impossible. Still though, a little part of him couldn't help but hold on to the hope that Sherlock was searching through the forest trying to find him.

He stared down at his stomach and, though he couldn't see it, he could still feel the wetness of his blood covering his front; some of it felt fresh. Lestrade had always been a strong man and had always been proud of it but, as he looked back out into the dark abyss surrounding him, he started to cry.

* * *

John felt like he had been walking for eternity. It was now dark all around him and he could just see the outline of the large man, who was dragging John through the jungle, in front of him, steering him in all sorts of different directions.

Since he had been dragged away from Greg, he had entered an almost trance like state. As far as he was currently concerned, all hope was lost. Greg would die in the middle of a bloody forest, tied to a tree, and Moriarty would use John to lure Sherlock to him and would kill them both.

He trudged along behind the large man and didn't say a word. Sometimes he would get lost in his thoughts and the man would pull on the rope because John had slowed down but, other than that, there was no talking or interaction between them.

The large man suddenly stopped walking and John followed suit, looking at him quizzically. The man pulled something out of his pocket and walked up to John. John was instinctively on guard until he saw that the man had pulled out a blindfold.

"Gotta put this on ya for the rest of the way," the man grunted to John as he put the blindfold around John's eyes.

"Yeah, like I could have remembered how to get here without the blindfold," he muttered under his breath with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

They continued walking and John was definitely having a harder time walking being blindfolded. Roots and sticks seemed to be much bigger and in his way now that he couldn't see them.

_Well, _John thought to himself, _at least we must be close._

But then John started thinking about what he was walking towards. The realization that he was going to be face to face with Moriarty had settled in and it was extremely disconcerting. After some thought, he decided that he would rather walk blindfolded through the forest forever than face Moriarty ever again.

Now his nerves were starting to get to him and butterflies erupted in his stomach.

Before long, they had stopped and John felt his blindfold being removed. He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted. The sun was just starting to come up and it cast a dim light over everything. He looked around at his new surroundings. They had emerged from the grassy forest onto dirt ground and it looked as if they had walked into a military camp. A very large warehouse looking building stood in front of them and, to the right of that, stood a smaller building, which John took to be sleeping quarters of some kind. To the left of the large building was some sort of training grounds, which was easily twice as big as a large building, where a large group of men looked like they were being trained for battle. Some were doing cardio exercises and he saw others firing rifles. It looked like Moriarty's own private army.

A jerk on the rope pulled John out of his observations.

"Come on, boss wants to see ya." The man had started leading John to the entrance of the large building.

John begrudgingly followed, as if he had a choice, and anxiety crept into his mind.

As the neared closer to the entrance John saw a man step out from the entrance to the large building. The man had dark, slicked back hair and was wearing what looked to be a very expensive suit.

The large man pulled John so that he was right in front of Moriarty.

John, who was looking at the ground, lifted his gaze to meet Moriarty's and felt uneasy that, though it was unsurprising, Moriarty was smiling at him.

Moriarty grabbed the rope that was attached to John's wrist and moved his hands along it until he was standing nose to nose in front of John and his hands were almost touching John's. Then, abruptly, Moriarty's expression turned angry and he pulled down hard on the rope, causing John to fall on his knees. John looked away, his jaw tight.

Moriarty laughed.

"He's still acting like a brave soldier," he said in an amused voice while looking at the large man who had brought John there. The large man chuckled.

His gaze drifted back to John and he leaned over so that he could whisper in John's ear.

"But that's all going to change," he whispered, so quiet that John had to strain to hear, "I'm going to break you John. By the time this is said and done, you'll be begging me to kill you. And, in the process, you'll draw Sherlock here and I'll make him suffer too, before I kill him."

He pulled his head back and looked at John with a smile, waiting for a reaction. But John gave him nothing, he continued to stare off into the distance, pretending not to listen.

Moriarty's expression turned angry again and he looked at John's injured shoulder, which was still bleeding freely.

"Oh!" he said with surprise, "poor Johnny's got an owie. Does it hurt?"

John said nothing, jaw clenched.

"How about if I do this?" Moriarty put his hand around John's shoulder and dug his thumb into the wound as hard as he could."

John had a feeling it was coming, but he could brace himself completely; he screamed.

Moriarty removed his thumb from John's shoulder and stood up looking down at John, who was now doubled over in pain, breathing heavily. He casually pulled a handkerchief from his front jacket pocket and cleaned his hands slowly and carefully.

"Get used to it Johnny boy, because it's only just beginning."

John looked up at Moriarty with as much hate as he could muster before two rough hands grabbed him and started pulling him into the building.

Moriarty just stood and laughed.


	6. Light at the End

_One foot in front of the other, _Sherlock kept telling himself.

He had felt hopeful when he left the wreckage, suitcase full of supplies, water, and food in hand, but the more he walked, the more his hope started to fade. And the longer he walked, the more he realized that he really had no clue where he was going.

_So, I am on an unknown island, but I have no idea the size of the island. Presumably, John and Greg are still alive and somehow I'm supposed to wander around trying to find them. Then, when I finally do find them, we all set out to find Moriarty and finally bring him to his demise. Sounds so easy!_

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. He had to stay focused. This island was already starting to get into his head.

He stopped and looked behind him. A long expanse of beach stood between he and the wreckage that he had come from, which was now a spot in the distance. He turned away from the wreckage and continued walking. To the left of him was the seemingly infinite sea of water and to the right was a seemingly infinite sea of trees.

Before leaving the wreckage, he had tried to calculate approximately where the other half of the plane would have landed, but it was difficult. He didn't know exactly where in the sky the two halves of the plane had been separated. Still, he gave it his best guess, which is always better than most, and made his way, one foot in front of the other.

He stopped again, getting the feeling he needed to change direction. He turned to his right and, with a deep breath, headed into the forest.

* * *

Greg's breathing was getting more and more shallow. Every breath brought a new wave of pain over his body and he sagged limply against the ropes binding him to the tree. He could tell that the sun was coming up because there was some light around the edge of his vision.

_Or maybe I'm finally dying and the light means I'm approaching heaven._

He managed to force his eyes open a bit more and was dismayed to find the same hopeless surroundings as before.

_Wishful thinking. Come on Sherlock. It's now or never._

And with that his vision turned dark again.

* * *

Sherlock trudged on and on, pushing aside branches with one arm while lugging the suitcase around with his other. He felt like he was in a trance, pushing forward, desperately clinging to the hope that Greg and John were still alive. He inhaled deeply and suddenly stopped, head snapping up, alert.

_Smoke_.

It was faint, but he could smell it. It had to be the other half of the plane.

With a renewed vigor, he set off at a half jog toward the smell; it got stronger and stronger until he caught a glimpse of something shiny not too far ahead of him.

He set of at a sprint until he reached the other half of the plane. The crash had created a large clearing in the thick forest. Parts of the plane were strewn all around and smoke was coming from one of the planes engines. He dropped his suitcase in his excitement and ran to the back of the plane, where it had broken off. Adrenaline was now pumping through his veins and he could hardly breath. He was so afraid of what he might find, but he had to know, one way or the other.

Nimbly, he jumped into the plane, instantly aware of the fact that there was no one alive in the plane. Like he did with the other half, he surveyed the whole plane in great detail until he was certain that John and Greg were no where to be found. He stood at the front inside the plane, and something started to nag at him. He was the only one alive from the other half of the plane, and, it seemed, that Greg and John were the only survivors from this half. He wasn't sure how, but Moriarty obviously wanted the three of them alive.

For now anyways.

Sherlock exited the plane, grabbed his suitcase and surveyed the outside of the wreckage. He walked around the perimeter of the plane when he noticed an area of grass that was flattened, like someone had been laying on it. He kneeled down and upon closer inspection, found that there was a small amount of blood on the flattened area of grass.

_Either John or Greg was thrown from the plane and landed here. From the size of the flattened area, I'd say John. Hurt, but from the amount of blood, not fatally._

He stood up and was able to track the footsteps of John. He stopped when he came across a tree with blood on it and a piece of jagged metal laying on the ground.

_Stopped to lean against the tree. Probably to gather his bearings and address his wound. The location of the blood on the tree suggests the metal was in his shoulder. By the lengths of the piece of metal, and the fact that his back was probably against the tree, it must have gone all the way through his shoulder. _

_Ouch. _Sherlock cringed.

He walked further and came across John and Greg's makeshift shelter. Sherlock instantly observed that there had been traffic through this area.

_Unwelcome visitors?_

He followed the tracks and became aware of a still figure in the distance, he could barely see through the trees. They appeared to be standing but not moving. He approached cautiously, but his cautious steps turned into a sprint when he realized it was Greg tied to a tree.

"Greg!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing to his friend.

Greg was unconscious and Sherlock checked his pulse, becoming aware of the large amount of blood on Greg's shirt.

Alive but barely.

He untied him from the tree and slowly lowered him to the ground, leaning his back against the tree.

"Sh'lock?"

"Greg!" Sherlock knelt in front of him. "God, Greg."

His eyes wandered down to Greg's stomach. He slowly peeled up Greg's shirt and saw that the large gash across his abdomen had, at one point, been stitched and cleaned.

_John._

Sherlock started rummaging through his suitcase in search of the first aid kit. "You've lost a lot of blood, but you'll be alright," Sherlock said as he addressed Greg's wound.

He was just finishing up when his mind drifted to John.

"Greg, what happened to John?"

He suspected what Greg would say, but he had to ask anyways.

Greg took a shaky breath. "They took him. They tied us both to a bloody tree, said they could only take one of us, and they took him."

Sherlock, now sitting cross legged in front of Greg, stared absently into the distance, lost in thought.

He was abruptly pulled from his daze when Greg let out a gruff laugh.

"They even asked John which one of us would go and which one would stay. Of course, he said I should go, assuming they would give me medical treatment to keep me alive."

He trailed off, looking away from Sherlock. "Bastards..."

Sherlock looked up at Greg and was surprised to see a tear rolling down his face. Somehow the sight of this set a fire in Sherlock like never before.

He placed a gentle hand on Greg's shoulder and looked him the eye with a steely gaze.

"Don't worry, Greg. I've got a plan."

Greg returned his gaze and managed his best grin. "Knew you would."


	7. Hurry Up, Sherlock

By Sherlock's best guess, it had been two days since the crash, and that meant one day since John had been taken by Moriarty. After he had found and re-patched up Greg, he decided they should go back to the front half of the plane that was closest to them. It would be better shelter from animals, the elements, and Moriarty's goons. Together they made the trek back to the wreckage and Sherlock went to work clearing out the debris and the bodies, deciding to give them a proper burial later, since he knew that's what John would want. He salvaged as many seat cushions as he could and turned the inside of the plane into a pretty spacious room, with two seat cushion beds. He also stored the food, water, clothes, and supplies in the overhead compartments. He was pretty happy with their new temporary home but, of course, every ounce of his being wanted to run back off into the jungle in search of John; he knew, however, that he had to make sure Greg would be alright first, then he could focus on John.

"Hey, this looks pretty good!" Greg peeked inside to view Sherlock's handiwork. Sherlock offered a hand and helped Greg inside their new home. Greg sat down on one of the seats and the mood suddenly turned somber.

"Look, Sherlock, I know your doing all of this for me, and I really appreciate it, I do. But I also know that you really need to go find John and I feel terrible that I'm holding you back. I think that if you can make me some sort of spear or weapon to defend myself if need be, tomorrow you need to go and find him."

He looked up at Sherlock expectantly. " I can survive on my own. There's plenty of food and water and plus, I'll be able to try and get the radio working. See if I can us rescued from this bloody island."

Sherlock slowly nodded his head. "That's a good plan. I'll make sure you have something to defend yourself with, and I'll head out first thing in the morning."

With that Sherlock headed out in search of a makeshift weapon for Greg. It didn't take too long, he had found a piece of metal among the debris that had a sharp, jagged edge, a and a pointy tip. He found a piece of wood for the handle and, with a little ingenuity, had made Greg a pretty decent knife. He realized, as he stood admiring his handiwork, that he still needed give the people that died a proper burial of some sorts. He didn't have a shovel or any way to dig, so he dragged each body a ways away from the wreckage and covered them all with leaves and sticks. When he had finished, he stood in front of them for a minute, silently apologizing, because he knew their death was his fault. Even though technically Moriarty had killed them, it was all done because of him.

He felt a tear roll down his cheek. _It's all my fault._

* * *

"What is taking Sherlock so long!"

Moriarty yelled, enunciating every word slowly. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling of the dark room, throwing strange shadows on Moriarty's face, making him look even more sinister. His gaze was directed at John, who was sitting, tied to a chair, calmly answering Moriarty's gaze with his own. It had only been two days since he had been separated from Greg and only about two days since the crash, but John felt like he had been here for much, much longer. Besides getting punched every now and again by a crazy and bored Moriarty, John was surprised that he hadn't received worse treatment.

_Of course, I'm sure the worst is yet to come. _He reminded himself grimly.

Moriarty started pacing back and forth in front of John, his hands wringing behind his back. "He's getting so SLOW these days!"

He stopped his pacing and stood in front of John, leaning so that he was face to face with him. "Do you want to know how your friend is? What's his name, Greg? If he's still alive or not?"

John took the bait. "How would you know?"

Moriarty started circling around John, tauntingly. "Oh, I know everything that goes on on this island. For instance, I know that Sherlock is alive. I know that he found Greg? And I know that Greg is dead."

John felt a wave of nausea and shook his head, jaw clenched. "I don't believe you."

Moriarty laughed as he walked in front of John, pulling something out of his pocket: a phone. He set it up on a tripod and carefully adjusted it so it was facing John. He reached into his other pocket, pulling out a small object. John didn't know what was coming, but he knew it wasn't good. Moriarty knelt in front of John, dangling a taser in hand.

He grinned. "Time to give Sherlock a little extra incentive."

* * *

Sherlock woke up suddenly, becoming aware of a buzzing in his pocket. Soft light was filtering through the windows, suggesting it was early morning. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, instantly on edge. A message from a number he didn't recognize. He glanced over at Greg, glad that he was still asleep. Quietly, he snuck out of the plane and hopped onto the mossy jungle ground, sitting on a nearby log. With bated breath he opened the message and saw that there was a video attachment. His thumb hovered over the video and he closed his eyes for a moment before he opened it, his heartbeat suddenly very fast.

A grinning face filled his screen that sent a shiver down his spine. _Moriarty._

"_Hi Sherlock! It's is taking you so dreadfully long to find me, so I thought I'd give you a little incentive to hurry up!"_

Moriarty retreated away from the camera and Sherlock became aware of John, tied a chair, beaten but otherwise looking okay. There was a glint of fear in John's eyes that Sherlock was so unaccustomed too; it made him feel uneasy. Moriarty was standing right next to John, something small in his hand.

"_You see, Sherlock, the game can't really commence until you get here and find John, and I'm getting quite impatient."_

Sherlock watched helplessly as Moriarty pushed what Sherlock had deducted to be a taser, into John's injured shoulder. John's body went rigid and Sherlock could tell he was trying his best to not give Moriarty the satisfaction of screaming. Over and over and over again Moriarty tased John, all over his torso and arms. He didn't once scream, but the stifled cries and groans was enough for Sherlock to feel enraged.

Finally, it was over and Moriarty's face once again filled Sherlock's screen.

"_Hurry, hurry, Sherlock!" _And his screen went black.

He shakily looked up and was startled to see Greg sitting on a log not too far away. "How long...did you...hear..."

Greg cut Sherlock off. "You need to go find him now Sherlock. And kill that bastard while you're at it."

Sherlock was caught off guard but somehow encouraged by Greg's steely resolve. He nodded at Greg and went to gather a few supplies for his journey. He returned to Greg with a backpack on his back and new found determination in his eyes.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, in the meantime, good luck with the radio and try not to overdo it." Sherlock reached out to shake Greg's hand.

Greg looked down at Sherlock's hand. He smiled, looked up, and went in for a hug. Surprisingly, Sherlock reciprocated. They both backed up and shared an awkward silence.

Sherlock turned to go when Greg piped up, "Good luck, Sherlock. I'll see you and John soon."

Sherlock nodded and began his trek to find his friend.

_Hang on, John._


	8. Upward and Onward

John had always kind of wondered what being tased would feel like, but at the moment he was pretty sure he could have lived without ever finding out. He woke up groggy, not sure of how much time had passed since he was used as _incentive _for Sherlock. His body was aching from all of the shocks he recieved and his mind was currently racing as the gravity of their situation settled in. At least now Sherlock knew he was alive and, he thought to himself, Moriarty may have just given Sherlock _too _much incentive. Now he was a man working against the clock. Racing to save his best friend. Sherlock's back was against the wall, and John knew that that made him dangerous. A small smile came to his lips as he glanced up and saw Moriarty nervously pacing in front of him, suddenly hopeful for the first time in a while, until his thoughts came to Greg. He kept telling himself not to believe Moriarty, but the thoughts of Greg being dead kept creeping into his mind.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _I just hope we all get out of here alive._

A sudden scream startled John as he looked at the demented man in front of him. "What is taking Sherlock so long!"

John ignored him as his mind drifted away again. A sharp pain in his nose pulled him away as he realized that Moriarty's rage was finally boiling over, and it looked like John was going to be his way to vent. Moriarty loomed over him with a crazed look in his eyes. John set his jaw and locked eye contact with Moriarty, determined not to waver. Moriarty sent punch after punch at John, not even bothering to aim, just wildly swinging at whatever part of John he could come in contact with. John took the beating with as much dignity as he possibly could, trying his best to remain silent, but it was impossible. He groaned with each hit until finally the frenzy ended. He managed to raise his head and look up at Moriarty through one eye and stared until Moriarty finally left the room, closing the door and leaving John mostly shrouded in darkness except for the single lightbulb gently swaying overhead, determined to keep the darkness from swallowing John completely.

He took assessment of his injuries, first taking notice of his previously injured shoulder which was now bleeding again. Even though he couldn't see it, he could definitely tell his face was in pretty rough shape. His right eye was swollen shut and he surmised that he had several gashes and bruises. Amazingly, he didn't think anything was broken in his face, other than a dislocated nose. His ribs were another story however; he couldn't tell for sure, but he knew that quite a few were either broken or fractured and he also thought his left wrist was probably dislocated from being jerked around.

_Well, _John thought to wryly to himself, _I guess I now also know what it's like to be treated like a punching bag._

He chuckled bitterly as his one open eyelid started feeling very heavy and he slowly drifted in unconsciousness.

* * *

Sherlock trudged through the forest, equipped with nothing but intelligence and wit. He hoped that would be enough to bring down Moriarty once and for all and save his friends.

He really had no clue where Moriarty was, but his gut told him he would be found at the center of the island, so he did his best to head in that direction. He walked for what felt like forever until he saw something or, rather, someone standing quite aways ahead of him in the trees. From the type of clothing they wore, he figured that they were some kind of guard. He also assumed that there were more of them, probably around the perimeter of Moriarty's little hidaway. He was sure that Moriarty was watching his every move, so he was too concerned about being seen. But still, if he could maybe overtake the guard, he might be able to obtain a weapon and that would be a very big asset.

So he set off toward the guard moving closer and closer dodging behind trees trying to remain unseen until he was about 15 feet away. He picked up a large rock from the ground and peeked from around the tree, checking that the guard was still clueless of Sherlock's presence.

The guard was on alert, looking in all directions, but Sherlock didn't think that he had seen him. He gripped the rock and, just as the guard looked to Sherlock's right, he threw the rock with all of his might to the left, behind the guard, hoping that he would turn around. As if on cue, the guard spun around, pulling a gun from his belt in that direction. Sherlock took his chance and sprinted from behind the tree, rushing to the guard and expertly breaking his neck before he knew what hit him. Sherlock grabbed the guard and gently laid him on the ground. He grabbed his gun, holding it tightly in his hand as he glanced around him, his ears straining for any noises. Afraid that more guards would come rushing to overtake him. Once he was confident that he was, at the moment, safe, he cautiously continued forward, sure that the worst was yet to come.


End file.
